


Hold My Life

by kriari (kadielkrieger)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Epistolary, Fallen Castiel, Gen, Mild Language, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/pseuds/kriari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S7 AU. Castiel surrenders his grace when he returns the souls to Purgatory, and though the Winchesters try to coach him through the early days of his humanity, things don’t work out quite the way anyone intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [blue_fjords](http://blue-fjords.livejournal.com/) and [dizzzylu](http://dizzzylu.livejournal.com) for the cheer-leading and speedy beta work! Written for [daggomus_prime](http://daggomus-prime.livejournal.com) for the [ Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange](http://deancas-xmas.livejournal.com)

Were God truly merciful, his journey might have ended years ago. Long before any of his brothers or sisters looked to him for guidance and necessity condemned him to the mire of indecision. It would’ve been easier. To be alive one moment and gone the next. Each ending met with a clear conscience, when he was still secure in the knowledge that he’d served well and with purity of purpose if not without doubt.

The third time Castiel died, there was _no_ clarity. Only regret. And pain. And sorrow. And fear. And while Dean would be surprised to know that after everything Castiel still believes in Him, he counts this final resurrection as proof of His perverse sense of humor. Not mercy. And certainly not love.

Because even with the souls returned to purgatory, the memories linger. Bright and bloody reminders of his sin, too real for him to pass off as simple nightmares though they creep up on him as he sleeps. He’s seen worse, done worse, in the centuries spent operating in accordance with heavenly whims. Yet it was never his own will that spilled innocent blood, never his judgment that felled the unrighteous.

Put plainly, life had been simpler when he was just following orders.

Still, he tries, will continue to try until this cage of flesh and bone gives out one day and Jimmy Novak’s borrowed body finally returns to the earth. He tries because he must, because humans value the privilege of free will so much that it has become an inherent part of who they are.

And what is he now, if not human. Perhaps that alone is his Father’s mercy. That he be allowed the opportunity to do penance.

A voice interrupts his reverie, sweet and young and more patient than he likely deserves.

“Sir,” it says, “sir, you have to pick a destination. Before I can issue a ticket, I need to know where you want to go.”

Castiel doesn’t wish to go anywhere but back to the stuffy attic of a drafty farmhouse he’s come to think of as home. Unfortunately, that’s no longer an option. He eyes the board behind her and drags a ragged fingernail across the edge of his one credit card that still works.

“Pine Bluff,” he mutters. The plastic plinks against the metal tray. Her fingernails are painted pale pink and tattooed with tiny shooting stars and she smiles at him, lopsided. Behind him, someone sighs, humid breath and alcohol fumes. Castiel cannot embark fast enough.

“Here you are, Mr. Ehart,” she says, folding paper into paper as if doing so makes it a more official document. Another pink fingernail flash. Another crooked smile. His ticket in the tray. “Enjoy your trip.”

Ironic, he thinks, that after so much time he’s here again, human again and cast out from the one place he felt he would always find welcome. Even after his missteps last year.

But Dean had been very clear.

_Go do something useful, get a god-damned life. Because human-you is not hacking it anymore. Those armies Eve and her rugrats built up are pissed, and they’re coming for us. And you’re gonna get us all killed._

He remembers wanting to protest, to say, “This is my life now,” and make an appeal to the better angels of Dean’s nature. But he hadn’t.

There’d been no raised voices between them, Dean quiet and fierce, but giving away nothing that allowed Castiel to attribute it to temper or fear or the specter of Dean’s ever-present insecurity. Bobby had simply excused himself in silence while Dean stared a hole through the floor and Sam swallowed over and over and over again but inevitably held his tongue.

So Castiel had gone.

***

**TO:** ramblinman1979@email.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:**

Dear Dean,

First, allow me to apologize for the inadvertent theft of this computer. In my haste, I did not realize it was in the bag I used to pack. It is my hope that this honest mistake will prove blessing in the end.

You will be happy to know that I've secured employment in the kitchen at Biggerson's. I enlisted the help of the motel clerk, Rhonda, to fill out the application. My past work experience doesn't lend itself to such endeavors, but we must have made it sound so. She thought that we should fabricate employers I never worked for and positions I had not held. I refused of course, not wanting to return to bad habits. As a result, the form took several hours to complete. Thankfully, I’d picked up several copies and remembered to keep my true previous employer to myself.

The work isn’t difficult. They asked that I watch one of the managers as part of my training. I've become adept enough now that I was able to take over "the grill" much faster than "most recruits." I think you would like the people here for the most part. There is laziness and I've had to report three different co-workers for stealing food, but there’s also friendship and aside from the night manager who leers at the young girls, I feel they are mostly decent. Joshua, especially. I haven't told him of his namesake, no matter how much I'm reminded of my old friend, the gardener. I feel like I have become something of a project for him, but I am sincerely grateful for the help.

All I know for certain is that making cheeseburgers appears much more glamorous in the television advertisements.

Castiel

***

No response comes, and after a week he stops waiting. Dean’s silence is answer enough. To what question, Castiel may never know. But dealing with Dean requires patience and perseverance, and Dean’s silences almost always communicate more than his words. Unfortunately, that puts Castiel in the awkward position of not knowing whether his messages are welcome.

Given their recent history, he decides to err on the side of relative transparency. He doesn’t tell Dean how empty his nights are without the Winchesters. Or how he’d caught the vibrant young people at Biggerson’s making fun of him behind his back. Or that the only one of his so-called friends he’s seen since he left Biggerson’s for the grocery store is Joshua, and that’s only because he stopped in at Brookshire’s to pick up a frozen pizza while Castiel was on shift. Most importantly, he resists expressing his opinion that he was much more _useful_ hunting.

Castiel certainly understands Dean’s concern. There have been close calls since he fell, occasions where he underestimated their foe or overestimated his own endurance. Each time they’d managed to get out somehow. But with the hordes of Eve’s surviving children banding together to rid the world of the Winchester “plague,” those miscalculations really could mean the difference between living to fight another day and, well, not.

***

**TO:** ramblinman1979@email.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:**

Dear Dean,

In case you were wondering, Biggerson’s and I have parted ways. After confronting Lewis about his inappropriate interest in the teenaged employees, I was encouraged to find an alternative place of employment. As luck would have it, there was a sign in the front window of the local grocery store when I went to pick up some essentials.

Now, instead of cooking greasy patties of meat for the people of this city, I put their cereal and milk and split peas in bags. I help them transfer the bags from the cart to their car. I collect the carts. I change the bulbs in the lights. I restock the shelves and help unload the trucks. There are regulars like there were at Biggerson’s, mostly elderly ladies who pick up the day’s supplies. I think I’m better suited to this type of work as it means spending more time with the people I’m assisting. Even if only for a moment.

About a week ago, one of the regulars mentioned that she’d had a son once and how she’s all alone in a big old house since her husband passed away. Apparently, one of the cashiers told her I’ve been living at the Blue Lagoon. Bertie offered me a room to rent for half of what I was paying as long as I help her with home repairs and maintenance. I tried to tell her I knew nothing about such things, but she waved it away and said I was just being modest.

So I now have a home of sorts. With Bertie, Bitsy the cat, and Rufus the ancient bloodhound. Yesterday, I had something called paprikash for dinner. It was very different from the things I ate with you and Sam, but it was also delicious.

I do hope all of you are well. If you are unable to respond, I understand.

Castiel

***

**TO:** ramblinman1979@email.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:**

Dear Dean,

As I have not heard from you or Sam I can only hold out hope. It concerns me that perhaps you both befell some terrible fate and I will never know the difference.

At Bertie’s insistence, I applied to numerous new positions around town. I told her I was perfectly content to do what I was doing, but she wouldn’t hear of a fine, upstanding “young man” such as myself slaving at a grocery store for the rest of my life.

I never imagined that living with someone allowed them license to dig into your past. Yet she does. Bertie certainly means well and cares for me in her way, but she is difficult to say no to. She reminds me of Ellen in that despite my annoyance, her tenaciousness is always aimed towards the greater good. It is pressure I’m well acquainted with, if not from a nearly eighty year-old woman with an inexplicable attachment to a collection of ceramic mice.

Two weeks ago, unable to put her off any longer, I related Jimmy’s past as my own. And now, on the strength of his employment history, I am set to begin work at her nephew’s car lot, selling used cars rather than advertisements. I asked her if it wouldn’t appear odd that I have changed jobs so quickly. She told me that if I worked hard, it wouldn’t matter, and that Andy would do whatever she said anyway.

Rufus sleeps at the foot of my bed now that winter’s come. Bertie’s pets are an unexpected, constant delight.

Castiel

***

  


> Dear Mr. Ehart:
> 
> I regret to inform you that after 5 work quality counseling sessions with company management and 3 written warning letters about your poor work quality, there has not been an acceptable improvement evident in your work. As we discussed on November 2nd, you had to improve your work quality by December 2nd to justify continued employment with this organization. McWhirter Motors has tried to work with you to develop the skills necessary to meet our sales quotas. However, it has become evident that not only is your work quality not up to the standards required of someone in your position, but it is also not congruent with the work experience you related when you were interviewed.
> 
> This leaves me with no choice but to tell you that your employment is terminated effective immediately. Please return all company property to the main office by the end of the day.
> 
> Please find your final check enclosed with this letter. As you have not been with the organization long enough to receive health insurance benefits, there will be no continuity offered through COBRA.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Andrew L. McWhirter

  


***

**TO:** ramblinman1979@email.com; winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:**

Dear Dean and Sam,

I apologize if my continued correspondence is unwelcome, but in some small part I still feel responsible for your well-being. I’d prefer to know whether or not you’ve survived the recent onslaught and the lack of response on your part is worrying.

As I expected, my tenure with McWhirter Motors lasted only a month and a half. I suppose I should consider it a matter of pride that I have not grown so adept at deception that I’m able to talk someone into making a purchase they don’t truly need to make. In our performance counseling sessions, Andrew was both patient and kind, but he is a businessman at the end of the day and I was a liability to his bottom line. I understand that.

Thankfully, I have lived frugally enough to subsist until I find a new job. I have thought about returning to Biggerson’s but fear that I will not earn enough there to pay my new landlord for the use of my apartment. Leaving Bertie, Bitsy, and Rufus was not easy, but it was a choice that needed to be made.

My new living conditions allow me the freedom to come and go as I wish without Bertie marking my every step. It came furnished, so it was simply a matter of outfitting the kitchen and bedroom. Bertie was kind enough to offer what she could when I left, including a vast array of well-used pots and pans. And with one of her afghans spread across the back of the couch it’s almost like being back at her house.

There’s a 24 hour diner around the corner that has hot coffee, french fries, and pie at all hours of the night. When I can’t sleep, I usually end up there with a book. It’s a simple life, but a good one I suppose.

Due to all the unexpected free time, I have been thinking a great deal about myself and the choices I’ve made, as well as how best to atone. I stand by my decisions as I truly believe them to have been the only ones that kept the world from ruin. As much as I wish you could have seen things my way, I understand now why you didn’t. Regardless of who was in the right or wrong, I regret that I compromised your trust and I apologize for having done so not only knowingly but willfully. The only excuse I have to offer is that it is difficult to lead and I never wanted the mantle foisted upon me by Raphael’s madness.

If you have a moment, please respond to at least let me know you’re both alive.

Castiel

***

**TO:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **FROM:** winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **SUBJECT:** About Time

Cas,

Just so you know, I’m going to kill Dean the next time his back is turned. Not literally, of course, but damn if I don’t want to. I do want it to be known that I had no idea he’d heard from you. He hasn’t so much as spoken your name since early October.

Anyway.

It sounds like you’re doing well for yourself and that you’re not dead in a ditch like _I_ thought. Seriously going to kill him. Things for us have gotten pretty dicey. No more so than usual, I guess, but I wish we could catch a break long enough to get a good night’s sleep. Last week we cleaned out a nest of vamps the Alpha must have turned himself before he got bagged. They were using succubi to lure victims and avoid detection. There was some stuff in the sub-basement I won’t go into. Dean seems to think it was the product of some serious delusions of grandeur, but he and I have very different ideas of what presents an imminent threat.

Just another day at the office for us.

So, yeah. We’re not dead (again) but things are…let’s just say interesting.

Where the hell are you, by the way?

SW

***

**TO:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **FROM:** ramblinman1979@email.com  
 **SUBJECT:**

We’re fine.

***

**TO:** winchester.investigations@gmail.com; ramblinman1979@email.com  
 **FROM: castiel@bellair.net**  
 **SUBJECT:** Re: About Time

Dear Dean and Sam,

Thank you for replying, it has eased my mind.

As to Sam’s question of where I am, it’s probably best to leave it at the fact that I am safe, healthy, and happy. I’m doing my due diligence to become a self-sufficient and useful member of society and the balance of that equation depends upon you not feeling beholden to check up on me. I have spent enough time with both of you to know that you will if you can, never mind the bad blood between us.

On the topic of employment, I feel I have finally found my niche with Landau Securities. They provide contract private security to most of the local businesses. I’m not certain how I convinced the hiring manager to take me on, but I’m grateful for the opportunity. Watching, protecting – these are things I know I excel at. And with rotating shifts, I get to meet new people nearly every day. Candace, the sales clerk at Eden’s Jewelry and Gifts, has even taken to inviting me out with her and the rest of the staff on Friday evenings.

With the additional income I earn at Landau, I’ve been able to outfit my apartment with some small comforts and now it does truly feel like home.

Good luck in your work.

Castiel

***

If only a home were so easy to create. Two Thursdays ago, as they'd sat across the kitchen table from one another playing Scrabble, Bertie had (in her self-proclaimed infinite wisdom) declared it was high time for him to find a place of his own. Apparently, it wasn’t right for a woman of her age to be boarding a man of his and tongues were wagging. Castiel secretly suspects that it has more to do with Andrew and the fact that he had not seen more customers that genuinely needed new vehicles. Or that Castiel has spent a great deal of the past three weeks talking about Dean. And Sam, of course. But mostly Dean.

Bertie had been uncomfortable, and Castiel hadn’t seen until it was far too late.

And now that Dean has finally responded, it comes as cold comfort that makes him wonder why he’s doing all this. Especially for the sake of someone who clearly doesn’t care.

***

**TO:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **FROM:** winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **SUBJECT:** Re: Re: About Time

Cas,

Are you okay?

SW

***

**TO:** winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:** Re: Re: Re: About Time

I’m fine.

***

**TO:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **FROM:** winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **SUBJECT:** Re: Re: Re: Re: About Time

You don’t sound fine. Would you at least call me?

Is this about Dean? For the past three days he’s been sulking like some thirteen year old girl. He’d deny it of course, but if there’s anything I know it’s Dean. Hell, he almost got his head detached because he missed a cue I threw him on a hunt.

What gives?

Sam

***

**TO:** winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: About Time

Sam,

I have no idea what might be troubling your brother. At the best of times, I consider him a perplexing creature. These days I have no grounds to even begin to guess as he has chosen to cut off all communication with me.

Of course, I still find human beings largely incomprehensible so perhaps the failing is mine.

In truth, I am not fine. Solitude doesn’t suit me, but I find socializing with civilians tiresome. We have no common ground to speak from. I understand that, in the abstract, I have siblings to complain about and a single-parent to blame for my dysfunction like many of the people I’ve met, but it will never be the same. I have no history that I can share without revealing my former status.

I also don’t understand the human tendency to speak around a topic. Or the odd gestures. Or the fact that humans rarely look one another in the eye during certain interactions. Or the odd phrases that mean nothing important but that are constantly glorified by the culture.

The past three months have been very difficult. I didn’t realize how much I leaned on the both of you until you were no longer there to lean on.

What does, “Bless your heart,” even mean? It’s nonsense.

I would appreciate it if you didn’t share this with Dean. I don’t wish to burden either of you any further, but I simply don’t understand why this life has more worth than the work I was doing with you. I am trying to find a larger purpose in the different positions I’ve held. So far I have not.

Castiel

***

**TO:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **FROM:** winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **SUBJECT:**

Cas,

I wish I could give you all the answers. Hell, I don’t have all of them to offer. It took time for me to make peace with what happened last year. Especially considering what you did to me. I’ve forgiven you, but I can’t say for sure that Dean has. Or that he even wants to yet. What I can tell you is that he didn’t chase you off because you made a couple of mistakes.

Well, okay, he did chase you off. But not because of the mistakes. He was afraid, Cas. Probably still is. It’s proof that he still cares what happens to you, at least.

Anyway, humanity takes practice. Give it time. Or not. I’m sure if you showed up here tomorrow no one would judge you for it. Just do it because it’s what you really want to do. You’ve been given the opportunity to opt out.

Sam

***

**TO:** ramblinman1979@email.com; winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:**

I just wanted to let you both know that I’ve been recommended for a promotion. If the paperwork clears, I will be working as a shift supervisor instead of in the field. I don’t know whether I want the position or not, but it pleases me to have my hard work recognized even if I don’t take advantage of the offer.

I finally accepted Candace’s invitation last night as I thought the news was good reason to celebrate.

She kissed me.

Castiel

***

**TO:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **FROM:** ramblinman1979@email.com  
 **SUBJECT:** Re:

Sam says I need to get the stick out of my ass. So here I am.

I’m happy for you, Cas. Really. Wish you the best.

Sounds like the apple pie life suits you and we’re all better off apart.

***

**TO:** ramblinman1979@email.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:** Re: Re:

Dear Dean,

I don’t know why you would think that, but no. I am NOT better off performing menial tasks that have no greater purpose than to ensure jewelry doesn’t get stolen or a bank doesn’t get robbed. The work has some meaning, of course, but after having served in the way that I served, this pales in comparison. I resent the fact you dismissed me like an errant school boy with nothing to offer. I understand that you think I deserve to do penance after all the things I did last year, but banishing me…

In all my years, rarely have I been so angry. You possess a singular tale-

***

Castiel stares at the cursor, watches it blink, blink, blink until he can’t bear it anymore and pushes the power button until the laptop screen goes black. There is an urge, dark and seething, to toss the contraption against the wall and watch it shatter into bits of wire and plastic. He feels like that might be satisfying. Whatever hope he’d had of making amends is clearly unfounded and the fact that Dean could be so callous makes him wonder if he’s not better off here, living his half-life. Working by day and hunting by night.

A month ago, he’d cleared a werewolf off campus. A week and a half ago, he’d used his weekend to track a fresh-water selkie south.

Maybe _this_ is his life now.

***

**TO:** Winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:** Dean

Why is your brother so infuriating? What must I do to earn his forgiveness? He forgave you when you opened Lucifer’s cage, so I thought you might have some insight to offer. I want to repair relations between us, but he continues to block me at every turn.

Castiel

***

**TO:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **FROM:** Winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **SUBJECT:** Re: Dean

Cas,

If I knew some trick, I’d be happy to share. He’s been a righteous dick for the past few weeks, and more quiet than I’ve ever seen him when he thinks he doesn’t have to put on a show for anyone. Dean tends to do things on his own, sometimes snail-speed, schedule. I have an idea what’s eating him and I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but it falls on deaf ears, stubborn bitch that he is. Dean has always seen things different when it comes to me, no matter how many times I try to disabuse him of the notion that I’m a kid who needs to be looked after, he’s as fierce a den mother as I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I don’t know what to tell you, Cas. He expects most folks to disappoint him, lie to him. But he never expected that of you. Up to the last, he defended you where Bobby and I were suspicious. I think he can get over that, maybe already is over that. Honestly, I think it’s me that he can’t get over. That you could do something like that to me to try to sideline him. It’s the sort of thing that’s been done to us over and over, by demons, by angels, by everyone trying to get a leg up on the Winchester boys. Hurt one to cripple the other. I think even though we couldn’t see eye to eye, he counted on you to be better than that.

Who knows, though.

On that cheerful note, I just wanted to let you know that we’re going to have to go dark for a couple of days, so don’t think I’m pissed at you or whatever. We’re getting ready to ditch our phones too. When I can, I’ll text you from the new numbers so you’ll have them.

Yes, Dean’s too.

Sam

***

**TO:** ramblinman1979@email.com; winchester.investigations@gmail.com  
 **FROM:** castiel@bellair.net  
 **SUBJECT:**

It has been two and a half weeks since I heard from you last. I wouldn’t concern myself with it considering how Sam and I left things, but I am also unable to reach Bobby. Most of the lines go straight to voicemail and the back door line has been busy for the last week.

I have exhausted what limited resources I have as there are only three other hunters I have contact information for. They have all confirmed that something big is going on, but they don’t know what.

Please respond as soon as you are able.

Castiel

***

On Saturday morning, Castiel wakes with the dawn. Despite the tendencies he’d inherited from the Winchesters, Bertie managed to instill in him an appreciation for the early hours, the deep breath the Earth takes before it shakes itself fully awake. Though he knows the sentiment to be biased at best, it does nothing to alter the pattern he’s settled into. No matter how late the night before has run, Castiel always rises before the sun.

He washes and dresses automatically, letting the routine of human maintenance guide his ablutions as if he had always been what he is now. Pretense carries him through when the truth couldn’t possibly, and he often wonders how many other people depend upon it to bridge the gap between expectation and reality.

At seven thirty, Castiel closes and locks the door behind him, covering the three blocks between his tiny basement apartment and the diner at a brisk pace. Above the door, a bell jingles when he pushes his way in, just as it does every morning. Garlands of fake evergreen frame the front windows, rainbow colored lights flashing among the needles even though it's almost light outside now. The aroma of freshly baked bread curls its way into his nostrils, warm and heady, intoxicating in the best of ways.

Behind the counter, Al grunts his good morning. Two eggs appear on a plate, yellow yolks unbroken and bracketed by two thick slices of sourdough toast. Castiel has never learned to like coffee, so the mug steaming alongside the plate holds tea instead. Just a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar.

“Cas.”

“Al.”

This is _their_ routine. Like the ritual that saw him from his bed and out the door, it is part of what allows this life he has now to continue.

“Working Christmas Eve?”

Castiel shrugs and breaks one of his yolks with a fork. “It seems so,” he says. “Walt has young children. It was only right that I take the holiday shifts.”

“Damn,” Al answers, “You’re a better man than I,” then turns his back to finish his preparations for the coming day without sparing Castiel another thought. Castiel doesn’t mention that Al too seems to be working the holiday. He’s learned that such observations are often unwelcome as they highlight hypocrisy.

The ten dollar bill Castiel leaves beneath his mug more than covers the cost of his breakfast. It is Christmas after all, and if anyone deserves his gratitude it’s Al.

Two left turns and six blocks later, Castiel lets himself into the headquarters of Landau Securities. The furnishings may be old, but the office is kept in a fastidious order that agrees with his own sensibilities. From eight in the morning to five in the evening, Castiel receives one and only one call and that is from the owner checking to see how things are going. Most of the properties Landau manages are closed for the holiday, so he had expected it to be quiet. At least he’d had the foresight to bring his file on the recent disappearances to peruse while he marked time. It still seems somehow dishonest to get paid to be idle, but most of the Landau employees do the same when they are working. Their job is to be watchful, prepared, not to _do_ anything in particular until circumstances require it. With the administrative tasks already wrapped up for the year, he can either work the case or stare at the walls.

So he works the case.

At five after five, he turns off each light in reverse order and sets the alarm as he leaves. Dinner will have to wait tonight. If his deductions are indeed correct, there’s a farmhouse on Guenther that needs his assistance much more than he needs to sample Al’s roast turkey. Creatures don’t observe Christmas unfortunately. The streets are quiet as the office was today, everyone long ago gathered to hearth and home, and his rusted-out old Datsun still sits undisturbed right around the corner from his apartment.

He’d dressed the part this morning, knowing that he would be the only one in and that while Landau was expected to be at the ready, in all likelihood no one would have need of their services. It means he can save the ten minutes it would take to change and head straight to the Littleton place. The door of the Datsun creaks ominously when he heaves it open and the engine sputters twice before catching. Castiel has no idea what he’ll do when it eventually dies. He depends upon it to do his real work, the work that means something to him. And without the benefit of transportation he will be all but marooned in a slowly dying manufacturing town with no means of doing it.

For now, though, it cooperates. Pavement bumps along beneath his tires, uneven; the thin ribbon of river there and gone again as he crosses it into the crescent of fertile farmland beyond. The drive gives him time to mentally prepare himself and the speech he will deliver to Scott Littleton when he arrives. No doubt the family has just sat down to their Christmas dinner. Castiel is loath to interrupt if his suspicions go unfounded, but the three fresh but empty graves at Saint Joseph’s remind him why it is best to act rashly and apologize later. His position with Landau offers him a modicum of imagined authority and he’s noticed that the townspeople are more likely to heed his warnings now that they know his face. Perhaps the Littletons won’t require inordinate amounts of persuasion.

Rocks thunk up against the back bumper, tinny and hollow as he makes the last turn onto Guenther. Out here, away from the factories and office buildings and lights of the stores, the moon shines big and brighter than any spotlight. Castiel could pick out the farm at five hundred yards. All the windows are dark save those in the back of the house but he can see shadows moving hurriedly beyond thin curtains, as if they are still setting the meal. He leaves the Datsun parked beside the skeleton of a huge maple tree stationed at the head of their circle drive and crunches his way through the frosted grass and gravel to the porch.

It isn’t until the boards of the bottom step creak beneath his boots that Castiel realizes he still has no idea what to say to get them out of the house. He stops, lost in thought, squinting up at the moon like it can offer him answers. It doesn’t.

But suddenly, he doesn’t need them. There are more pressing concerns than fabricating a story to extricate the Littleton family on Christmas Eve. Because there’s a hand pressed to his mouth, a strong arm wrapped beneath his ribs, and when he steps back into his assailant to throw him off balance the figure moves with him as if they were dancing.

Castiel simply alters his strategy, jerking his head back and to the right until he’s able to sink his teeth into the heel of the hand clamped across his mouth. The man spits a curse, squeezing Castiel’s ribs and digging the fingers of his uninjured hand into the rough fabric of Castiel’s coat.

The bushes to his left rustle, the last of autumn’s leaves hanging gamely on though the temperatures have eased into winter, and Castiel would have thought it the wind if not for the absence of a breeze against his skin. If there’s a second one like this, he thinks, I may not survive. Inside the house, there’s a burst of laughter. Someone flicks the porch light on, then off, then the overhead light in the living room clicks on and stays. The bush rustles again and Castiel uses the sound as a distraction, buckling his knees in hopes he can bunch up and roll away. It’s a calculated risk that he never quite realizes, because just as the figure behind him tips forward to try to balance the dead weight of his body, the bush hisses, “Dean, Jesus,” and morphs into a second hulking figure. A familiar one.

“Cas, is that you?”

Sam Winchester’s voice is unmistakable, even after having gone so long without it.

The arm crushing his ribs goes stiff then disappears altogether, leaving Castiel slumped in an ungraceful heap in Scott Littleton’s front yard.

“Hello, Dean,” he says. “Sam.”

When Castiel rises, his knee stings, pants leg sticking to skin. It’s not the worst he’s had, but it serves to make him feel every last one of his many, many years.

“Damn, it’s good to see you.” Sam smiles, moonlight too cool for the warmth in his face and Castiel feels himself respond. For a moment, it’s almost like old times and his chest goes tight like it had when Candace kissed him, threatening to burst with a strange mix of emotions he can’t possibly untangle into singular sentiments.

Dean is the one to break the spell, voice rough as he settles in beside Sam. “What the hell are you doing here?” Even given his relative ineptitude at interpreting body language, the message is clear. Maybe because it is the same message Dean has sent for his entire life – us against them. Still, it stings to once again be considered a them.

Simple questions deserve a simple response, so he answers, “Hunting,” and leaves it at that. He scans the landscape beyond the brothers and finds it clear. There’s no hope they’ll scare off the vampires simply by standing in the Littleton’s front yard, only delay their attack.

Dean snorts and hitches an elbow into Sam’s side, muttering Castiel’s explanation like it’s an impossible joke. But Sam knows better, brow creased with concern as he takes a careful inventory of Castiel’s appearance and searches for the right words.

“Alone?” is what he finally chooses and Castiel nods.

Some might consider Dean’s reaction comical. His features seem undecided as to whether they intend to settle on shock or anger and the resulting expression is oddly quizzical.

“You were supposed to retire,” Dean grouses, rubbing at the teeth marks Castiel left in his hand.

Castiel sighs. “I didn’t. Get over it.”

Sam barks a laugh that he quickly stifles in the bend of his elbow, and Dean shoots him one of those unreadable Winchester looks Castiel gave up decoding long ago.

“As long as we’re all here,” Castiel says, “I suppose it would make sense to work together. There’s no need to interrupt the Littleton family if we can neutralize the threat quietly.”

Another look. Sam shrugs.

Eventually, Dean relents, the, “Fine,” that skips across his lips sounding anything but.

Dean hasn’t changed much since Castiel saw him last. Neither has Sam for that matter. Both of their images had faded with the imperfection of his human memory of course, but Dean…Dean looks harder than Castiel remembered him being, all sharp edges and barely contained violence. The raw, compassionate creature he pulled from the Pit nearly unrecognizable now. He wonders, idly, if it is simply because he’s no longer equipped to _see_. To think his betrayal and absence had done to Dean what Hell had not is the height of hubris.

Not that it matters to anyone but him. Dean seems content to leave the distance between them alone, choosing to rifle through the duffle and check weapons he’s no doubt checked a thousand times over instead of drawing near to talk the way that Sam does. Castiel ascribes a small part of his brain to answering Sam’s questions, thankful that even fallen he can think about more than one thing at a time. Even in his inattention, Dean draws Castiel’s focus. Always has and likely always will. Like a small sun he can’t help but orbit – his path tenuous at best and as likely to spin off and out of its gravitational pull as he is to be sucked into its core and rendered to cinders.

The longer Sam talks, the more Castiel begins to believe the other Dean is still there. Subtle shifts in his body language are enough to tell Castiel that he’s listening intently, even if he’s not participating. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases, the tempo of his hands on the guns slowing to something recreational rather than swiftly efficient. He’s paying attention but believes Sam and Castiel are not.

Castiel starts to say something to him, but a pair of headlights skips across the rows of withered, grey cornstalks to their right and they all fall silent.

It feels good to work as part of a unit again. And they do work as a unit, he and Sam moving to flank out of instinct and practice and habit and Dean crouches behind Castiel’s Datsun on point. The van full of marauding vampires that might have been dangerous for one inadequately armed hunter proves to be a laughable challenge for three brothers-in-arms with an impressive arsenal, and Castiel feels how much easier it is to pull his weight after the months spent on his own. How much better he is at anticipating his adversary’s moves and choosing a counterstrike that suits his strength and speed.

But he doesn’t allow himself to need them. If there’s one unalienable truth when dealing with the Winchester brothers, it is that they don’t stay.

When the eighth head falls at the end of his axe, Castiel says his goodbyes. He cleans the weapon carefully before he hands it back to Dean. This time, the meaning of the look Sam gives Dean couldn’t be clearer. But Dean doesn’t respond to it, so Castiel simply climbs into his Datsun and putters back across the river and home, secure in the knowledge that Scott, Theresa, Layla, Mason, and little Suzette are safe.

The night has cooled when Castiel leaves the comfort of his car. Perhaps it’s an after-effect of the adrenaline burning off or simply the fact that he ran the heater on the way back from the Littleton farm. Either way, it certainly feels like winter on the short trek around the corner and down the four slab stairs to his place. Inside, the temperature doesn’t suit him any better. Keen on conservation, he turns the central heating and air off when he leaves for the day. Usually, he’d be home to turn it on long before the evening bled all the warmth from the air. Not tonight.

There’s nothing for it now.

Castiel strips his clothes off into the kitchen sink to soak, grateful for the tricks Sam once taught him to get out blood stains. Without that knowledge his budget for clothing would easily double. Teeth chattering, he makes for the bathroom in nothing but his thin shorts and socks and turns the shower on as hot as it will go. Before long, steam fills the small space and he sheds everything else to ease under the water. Unlike the cool efficiency of his morning ritual, Castiel now lingers, letting the heat soak into his bones. He does not think about Dean or Sam or the brotherhood, the otherhood that might have been if only he’d made different choices. Before Sam raised Lucifer, he had been sure of Dean’s trust, Dean’s friendship, Dean’s…

Before Sam raised Lucifer, he’d been sure of Dean. In every way. He’d loved with complete purity, without expectation. He’d followed Dean to his ruin over and over again. And what had he earned in return?

Hindsight offers him little anymore beyond regret and sadness.

The T-shirt sticks to his shoulders when he dresses, too soon from the shower and not nearly dry enough to dress. There’s no way to know if Al will still be at the diner. Without customers, sometimes he will close early. Sometimes he stays on doing inventory. One thing’s certain, Al’s turkey and dressing will make a better meal than the can of tomato soup in Castiel’s cupboard. He has to try.

Since he’s officially done for the night, mobility is no longer an issue, so Castiel pulls on his warmest coat and thickest gloves and slips back out into the night.

The diner stands dark when he arrives, the sign on the door flipped and a ragged piece of paper taped above it detailing the holiday hours. Apparently, Al doesn’t intend to come in tomorrow either. While it’s an inconvenience, it’s to be expected. Anyone who can take time at Christmas does. Luckily, he’d anticipated this and laid in more groceries.

Resigned to soup and saltines, Castiel turns to retrace his steps and stops just short of running into a far too solid cluster of shadows.

“I highly doubt that mugging me would agree with you,” he says, setting himself for violence should it become necessary.

“Don’t need your money, Cas,” the voice replies, the person behind it sidling into the golden circle of light cast by the streetlamp overhead. Like this, Dean looks tired and five years older than when Castiel last laid eyes on him.

“Then what _do_ you want, Dean?” The question leaves his lips more defensive than he intended, but it’s too late to call it back now.

Dean doesn’t answer anyway, and Castiel pushes past him then on, trusting his legs to know the way. Boots scuff pavement at his back, the sound of Dean following. Castiel chides himself for not having heard it before. No one should have been able to get this close without him knowing.

Dean falls into step beside him, hands shoved in deep pockets.

“Man, what the hell are you doing here?”

Over the last few days, the cold has chapped his nose raw, and Castiel rubs at it to keep it from running. “I was getting dinner,” he answers. “But as you see, the diner’s closed.”

He rounds the corner abruptly, lengthening his strides. After all they’ve been through, Castiel can’t figure out why Dean would be so needlessly cruel. If only he and Sam had skipped town after the Littleton farm, Castiel could have easily picked up his life where he left off. The longer they stay, the harder it is to pretend he doesn’t want to go with them, to remember why he’s supposed to try.

The light beside his door shines beacon-bright ahead and Castiel rushes for it, painfully aware of Dean’s heat and his closeness, the fog of his breath in the air. Finally, his hand curls around the knob, awkward with the bulk of his gloves. For a second, he simply rests his forehead against cool steel, staring until the chipped grey paint goes smooth and blurry.

“What do you want Dean?” he asks again. This time he looks, _really_ looks at Dean. And yes, he’s still there if buried.

Dean chews his lower lip, spit glistening when he finally makes up his mind to ask what he really wants to know.

“Are you happy here?”

It’s not the question Castiel expected, so he takes a moment to collect himself before attempting an answer.

Dean doesn’t wait. “Where’s Bertie? Or Candace? Why, if you have this great life, are you spending Christmas Eve alone?”

“Dean.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Cas. What the fuck?” Dean’s eyes are huge and glittering greener than he remembers, and Castiel sighs, resolve wavering.

“I’m doing what you wanted. What you asked of me.”

Realization dawns, a slow, sure thing that sweeps across Dean’s features at a glacial pace.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, so quiet that Castiel strains to hear it. His keys jangle when Dean plucks them from his hand, trying each in the deadbolt until he finds the one that fits. “Let’s get your stuff.”

He doesn’t wait for Castiel to invite him in, but when has Dean Winchester ever waited for an invitation where he’s concerned. For the entire time they’ve been acquainted, Dean has run roughshod over everything Castiel is, everything he hoped to be. In the end, his forgiveness is always offered easily but not without expectation. Like Sam, Castiel is meant to fulfill a role. When he doesn’t, Dean lashes out. That’s what had driven his outburst those many months ago, Castiel is certain of it.

But he has no assurances that things will be different if he returns.

So he asks, “Why?” and Dean stills with his arms full of Castiel’s clothes, Castiel’s weapons chest standing open at his feet.

“Why what, Cas?” From his place on the stoop, he watches Dean yank Bertie’s afghan off the back of the couch and wrap the bundle up, presumably for easy transport.

“Why should I go with you?”

Dean goes still again, and Castiel recognizes it – not as realization but fear and incomprehension, all of his issues laid bare in a simple question. As is to be expected, Dean bristles, immediately on the defensive.

“You don’t want to come? Fine.” The bundle bursts open when it hits the couch, clothes scattering. “But you don’t have to be a dick about it. A simple no would work.”

Castiel sighs, caught again by Dean’s beauty in his damage, and knows that he will go whether or not he earns the apology, the promise he deserves. He steps across the threshold, closing the door behind him.

“How do I know that this won’t happen again, Dean? That you won’t send me away for my own good. To ease your conscience.”

When it’s out, Castiel realizes he hasn’t consciously acknowledged his understanding of Dean’s reasons. He’d extrapolated them from Sam’s emails, but never accepted them until now, not really. Dean swallows and scrubs a fist across his mouth, looking so much like the small boy he hasn’t been for years that Castiel’s heart aches.

“I won’t,” he says.

Castiel knows better than to hold him to it, because there will be times that Dean can’t help himself. All that can be done to combat Dean’s instinct is ensure he requires less protection. It’s imperfect, but Castiel had never imagined being human could be done without such failings. The Winchesters themselves are proof that greatness often presents itself in flawed packages, and Castiel could do no better for himself than to strive for their level of imperfection. Without, perhaps, adopting some of their more debilitating interpersonal problems.

Instead of answering with promises of his own that he may not be able to keep, Castiel simply collects his small weapons chest, gathers his duffel and laptop from the bedroom closet, and dumps everything he cares about into one or the other, including Bertie’s afghan. Dean watches him, hawk-eyed and silent, but Castiel can feel the tension in him, the hope he doesn’t want to voice. Castiel offers the duffel and Dean takes it, strap slung over his shoulder mechanically.

“Ready?” Castiel says finally, chest tucked into the crook of his elbow and doorknob in his hand.

Dean flashes one of those rare smiles, a gift and apology that Castiel returns. “Yeah,” he says, resettling the weight of the duffel. “I’m good.”


End file.
